


Promise You Won't Forget

by heget



Series: Band of the Red Hand [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Death, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Nargothrond Soap Opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6924760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heget/pseuds/heget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the ninth companion of Finrod and Beren to die in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise You Won't Forget

He won’t remember the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

He wouldn’t remember his mother-name, Costawë, for his mother foresaw he would live a life surrounded by strife, though she could never have imagined the fighting that he would do against monsters out of half-told nightmares in a strange and distant land. Nor would she have approved, a devout Vanyar who passed down her bright yellow hair to her half-Noldor son. He won’t remember how rare that yellow hair is for elves in this land, a color naturally possessed -with only a few exceptions- by the sons and daughters of the line of Finarfin, the third branch of royalty of the House of Finwë. The cruel lord that captured Costawë and imprisoned him in the dungeon of Tol-in-Gaurhoth was confused by that yellow hair, uncertain if this lowly soldier was a Finwion prince or not. The other blonde, the one that dueled songs of power against the lord of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Sauron was almost certain was one of the remaining sons of Finarfin, though the devious mind of the dark Maia could not comprehend why a king would be here with such a small company disguised as orcs and trying to bypass this island to go north. It was not something one expected of a king, even King Felagund. Sauron remembered the elven lord that he had stolen the isle of Tol Sirion from, the one he overthrew to make this white tower into the den of werewolves. Neither of the blond elves now imprisoned in Sauron’s dungeons matched that glimpse of the fleeing Lord Orodreth. The mystery troubled Sauron.

In the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth Sauron demanded that his prisoners reveal their names and purposes. None would, least of all the one who found his memory slipping away in fever and pain.

Costawë won’t remember his second name, Fána, for the clouds that hung as mist around the mining outpost village in the Pelóri mountains. He won’t remember those peaks draped in veils of mist and glittering with the silver and gold light of the Two Trees, the tall green pines swaying in the high winds and the calls of nearby wolves. He won’t remember the place that was once his first home. Of his mother’s house, the timber-clad walls painted in bright colors in the manner of her people, the landscape expertly painted by his father hanging on the dining room wall that fooled the eye into thinking one could smell the flowers of a garden from Tirion, his mother washing the dark gray stones of the kitchen floor and his father cooking on the stove. The smell of boiled cabbage, the rooster crowing from outside, his room on the second floor with a shelf of pretty rocks and a marionette of a howling wolf - he would remember none of this.

He won’t remember the reeve’s daughter with her long dark hair and silver earrings, or how shy he had been around her, how deeply he longed to speak to her. He won’t remember the water cistern in the center of the small mining town, or sitting on it to speak with her. He won’t remember his promise to her. In the fever dreams of captivity, he would forget everything that he vowed he never would.

Fána won’t remember how the language of the elves in this new land shorten his name to Fân, how so many words in the Grey Tongue came out short and quick and strong, words to shout across a battlefield or to slip and weave between the close-twined branches of trees. In the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Fân would murmur soft meaningless syllables. He’d forget all the languages he once learned.

He won’t remember his star-struck admiration for the march-wardens of Doriath and the soldiers of the Leaguer, how eager he was to apply for training. He won’t remember Arodreth dragging a hand down his face in weary disbelief at how weak of a trainee Fân was, how poorly Fân held a shield and sword and how his body buckled under the weight of the chainmail. The one scrawny Noldor, proof that not all newcomers were taller and stronger than the Sindar. He won’t remember the desire to replace Arodreth’s scorn with respect, when he earned the begrudging smile of the older elf’s acknowledgement, his pride on the day Arodreth called him a worthy soldier of Nargothrond. He won’t remember Arodreth nodding when Fân stood by the King ready to aid Beren’s quest when the majority of the city did not, the calm acceptance from the older elf, that Arodreth expected nothing less than this show of bravery and dependability from the boy that he had once labeled the weakest reed. Fân won’t remember the courage it took to stand in that throne room and answer King Finrod’s call for aid. He would keep no memories of the years of strength-training drills, of lugging supplies from the boats that came down the Narog River over the west bank and into the underground city, carrying bags of grain and foodstuffs, cords of wood and blocks of stone, imported silk and finished clothing through the tunnels of Nargothrond until his arms developed the muscles he needed. Ethir taught him how to improve his archery, and Faron showed him how to use the short arrow, but it wasn’t until Bân took him under his wing and trained him in use of the greatsword that Fân found his calling. Fân won’t remember Bân smiling at him, won’t remember the mutual teasing over a similar background of small village life in Valinor, of joining the Exile out of misguided lust for adventure, fame, and revenge. He won’t remember the feel of Bân’s arms around his shoulders, the white puffs of their breath hanging in the cold air as they climbed the mountains around Hithlum. The dark-haired elf asking who Fân had annoyed as to get stationed on the slopes above Tol Sirion. They had shared complaints about the cold, about strange accents and boring patrols, about how the orcs reeked like rotten corpses and the water tasted strange, but the birdsong sounded sweeter than in Valinor. The other elf shared stories of visiting Menegroth, of a girl who tended to seedlings and sent him letters. He spoke of meeting the famous march-wardens of Doriath, of Strongbow and Mablung of the Heavy Hand. Bân spoke of the people he had left behind and those he had recently befriended. Bân called Fân a friend, and he might have been the first to do so.

Fân wouldn’t remember that face, the dark hair and bright blue eyes, the small scar along the jaw and the smile as bright as Treelight, even as it stared across from him in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

Bân asked the younger elf about his friends left behind in Valinor, of his life back when he was Costawë, was Fána. So he shared memories of the small mining town, of the pines, mountains, and constant howling of the wolves. Dark-haired Indomuinë with her silver earrings and the promise she was holding him to, that Fân did not divulge, but felt that Bân could deduce.

He won’t remember Bân handing him a smaller copy of the giant greatsword that the taller elf wielded with such skill and strength or training him in its use, learning to spin the two-handed blade like a spear. The memories of his own greatsword with the Pelóri mountain wolf etched on the _ricasso_ of the blade between the hilt and where the sharpened edge began would not survive. Bân’s smile as he unveiled the sword Fân too forgot.

His offer to paint the other man’s sleeping quarters Fân would forget, as he would his childhood memories of the yearly reapplication of paint to the timber scaffolding of his mother’s house and how his father could never afford enough kingfisher blue to coat the shutters and doors, how they improvised by outlining the plaster around the beams. Fân wouldn’t remember painting the reeve’s house for the chance to listen to Indomuinë practicing her dulcimer, blushing as she asked him what his favorite color was or favorite song. He forgot how the lines of blue, orange, and green and the bright painted flowers masking the stone walls would soothe Bân’s homesickness. He forgot the pattern of stars he painted in his own sleeping quarters, reproduction of constellations he remembered while leaning against the side of the cistern tower of his mountain village, how the mist soaked into his skin as he promised Indomuinë he would return after Morgoth was defeated, return as a mighty hero.

Fân won’t remember the time his friends conned him into dressing in a borrowed gown and jewelry, and how he had been mistaken for Lady Finduilas. His memories of Lord Celegorm’s anger and Bân’s pealing laughter, of his commander and old Arodreth palming their faces to hide tear-filled eyes, _that_ the blond elf would not miss. The gratitude from Lady Finduilas, however, was a memory he would have wished to keep.

Fân won’t remember how his name was shortened so that it rhymed with the older soldier, until they because a set, until every company that Bân led on patrols and into war had Fân at his side. He won’t remember the Fens of Serech, won’t remember how he slipped in the muck and nearly drowned, nose filled with the scent of peat and blood, Bân’s sword arching fast and desperate to clear a circle around him until the Bëorians rescued them. Ragnor reaching down to grasp his arm and pull him from the fen-mud, Arthad washing his mouth with water from a bladder skin, Barahir standing beside an exhausted Bân and relieved King Finrod, begging the elves to follow them out of the swamp to safety. The mortal men carrying the elven soldiers on their backs, their shields raised high to protect their bodies, the thud of orcs arrows against the wood or splashing into the brackish water around their feet. Bân’s bright blood-soaked smile declaring how much he loved the men of Bëor. A life debt recognized, an oath promised.

Fân won’t remember removing the silver earring of a wolf as he stripped out of his darkened chainmail and donned the armor of an orcish scout, shivering in disgust as he wove orc hair into his blond hair and Finrod sang the enchantment to disguise them. Nor would he remember the sketch for a silver ring hidden in his room with a matching wolf head, a ring too small for his fingers, a ring for another person’s hand, for a promise that could never be met.

He won’t remember being stripped and thrown into a dungeon, chained to its walls in an unlit pit as Sauron waited for them to break. The darkness, the damp chill, the heat of a fever. He won’t remember Bân chained beside him, the other elf shouting for Fân to stay awake. He won’t remember his companions devoured one by one. Faces of men who shouldn’t be strangers. He won’t remember Bân’s last words, the dark humor of his call for food, words Bân normally shouted as to echo through the great gallery of Nargothrond when the soldier was on kitchen duty. He wouldn’t remember the wolf stalking towards them both, Bân kicking out to strike the creature’s jaw, drawing those teeth to the older elf. He won’t remember Bân sacrificing himself, reaching out as the wolf shredded the organs and ribs of his chest to touch Fan’s face with bloody fingers, whispering that his best friend must survive this.

He won’t remember his friend at all.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're familiar with an extremely popular JRPG from about twenty years ago that recently announced it was getting a remake, then the characters of Bân, Fân, and their would-be lady-loves should sound familiar. ~~I accept no complaints about Celegorm as Don Corneo.~~
> 
>  _Costawë :_ comes from the root verb _costa-_ "to quarrel"  
>  _Fána/Fân :_ Quenya and Sindarian nouns, respectively, for "cloud"
> 
> A true two-handed greatsword, like the _zweihänder_ , was wielded more like pole-arms than longswords, used against pike formations or to defend against multiple opponents. The short arrow refers to a form of overdraw archery, famously the Korean _pyeongjeon_ or Turkish _siper_ or _marja_ , where a small arrow is fired with the aid of another device, making it near impossible for an enemy to use the spent arrow and giving a longer range via a lighter arrow.


End file.
